Backwards Day
by Abracadebra
Summary: Carter is a punk, Kinch is an insult artist, Newkirk is a clueless toff, LeBeau sounds like a surfer dude, and Hogan is wondering what the heck happened to the world he knew so well.
1. Chapter 1

It was January 31, 1944, and everything Colonel Robert E. Hogan knew was wrong.

It started moments after he made his first appearance in the barracks that morning at 6:30. He was, as always, conscious of the need to set a standard for his men. So his hair was shiny and neatly coiffed and he was freshly shaven. His clothes, though getting threadbare in places he'd rather not ponder, were tidy. Everything was in its place.

Or so it seemed. Nobody paid the slightest attention to him when he strolled into the barracks. Nobody cracked wise or pressed a warm mug of coffee into his hands.

Odd, he thought. But everyone had their off days. Sometimes all at once, apparently, he thought as he eyed his core team. Carter, Kinch, LeBeau and Newkirk were all there. Sort of.

Something was definitely a little bit off when Hogan took his place in line at roll call. Sergeant Schultz was presiding as usual, but he was snarling.

"Straighten up!" he commanded as he inspected the formation. He was prodding men with his rifle butt as he strode purposefully along. "Fix your collar! Tie your bootlaces!"

Hogan glanced to his left. Newkirk was there, as usual, and to the English corporal's left, as always, stood LeBeau. Newkirk's eyes flicked past Hogan. He looked timid and seemed to quake as Schultz drew nearer.

Suddenly a jeer rang out from the back row.

"Come on, Schultzie. Don't get your Schlüpfer in a twist," Carter razzed the portly sergeant of the guard. He snickered at Schultz's furious face. "Jeez, Schultz, it's just a joke. Get over it."

"That's not very nice, Carter," Newkirk murmured cautiously. Schultz stopped in front of him, glared at Carter, then poked the Englishman.

"Your friend is very brazen," Schultz said. He gave Newkirk a shove and laughed as he landed on his backside.

"Oh, I say!" Newkirk exclaimed as he landed. "That was jolly well unexpected!"

LeBeau spoke languidly to Schultz as he watched Newkirk scramble to his feet. "Oh, you know Carter. He's like, kind of a bully, and he hates Germans," he drawled. He looked over his shoulder at Carter. "You could be more considerate," he placidly advised the surly American. "They didn't start this war."

"Of course they did!" Carter snapped. "What kind of an idiot are you, LeBeau? Don't you read newspapers?"

"Dude, there are good people on both sides," LeBeau replied, sounding utterly noncommittal.

"Yeah, like the people who cook dinner for the enemy," Carter snapped back. "Also known as collaborators! People who have no loyalties," he added in a menacing tone.

LeBeau rolled his eyes. "You call it collaboration. I call it self-preservation. I mean, seriously, what did France ever do for me? And you," he said, diverting attention from himself by lazily wagging a finger at Newkirk, who was brushing off his clothes, "Bruh, you need to toughen up."

Another snort came from the back row. "Oh, please, LeBeau. You can't change a mouse into a lion. You know Newkirk – he's just another rich Eton kid who's had a soft life." Wait, Hogan wondered. How could that be Kinch?

"Harrow, actually," Newkirk interjected politely. "I know it's dreadfully easy to confuse the two, but we wear straw hats, you see. Well, some of the time we do. We both have top hats and waistcoats and striped trousers, of course, but Harrow's really quite a bit better known for the boaters. You know, named after the boat races. At least, I suspect that's how they started. I don't row, myself, although my brother, Newkirk Minor, is quite athletic. Rather more of a cricketer, though. Not fond of swimming ever since that time..." He ran out of steam and looked around, then cast his eyes down. "Sorry. Sorry to interrupt."

Kinch and Carter rolled their eyes, and Carter leaned forward to cuff Newkirk on the back of his head.

"Do us all a favor and shut up, Peter," he said.

"Shutting up, yes," Newkirk replied.

Why are they calling him by his first name? Hogan wondered. But he couldn't waste too much energy on that thought, because Colonel Klink had arrived. His firm Prussian demeanor was accentuated by his athletic build, movie-star good looks, and flawless eyesight. As he delivered a forceful and well-reasoned lecture on German military superiority, Fraulein Helga stood behind him, swooning. He was so charismatic.

Klink noticed Helga's gaping adoration and smirked. "Oh, Helga," he said. "Please contact Katja, Konstantina and Krimhilde. Book me for today's lunch, dinner and, um, evening entertainment."

"What about Magda and Veronika, Sir?" Helga inquired. "They've been calling five times a day!"

"Oh for heaven's sake, Helga. Magda can wait two days. The L's are tomorrow—you know, Lilly, Liesel, Lotte. The M's are the day after that," Klink replied imperiously. "Veronika… hmmm. She's the redhead, right? We might be able to squeeze her in for breakfast tomorrow. But it's not that complicated, Helga. You remember that you and Hilda and Heidi just had your turn two days ago, don't you?"

Helga thought she remembered, but the sheer joy of being in Colonel Klink's employ occupied so much of her mind that she tended to forget things.

Klink strutted his manliness for a few more minutes, then finally roll call broke up. Hogan took charge, or tried to.

"All right, everyone, inside," Hogan said in his usual commanding way. But no one listened. They all turned to Carter, awaiting further instructions.

"Come on, guys, gather in my office," Carter said. "We've got to make plans for harassing the Germans."

That sounded promising, Hogan thought. And Carter was senior to most of the men. It was only a matter of time before he started exhibiting leadership qualities. Although Hogan couldn't quite recall when he had started to do so. Hmm. That was odd.

Hogan shrugged and followed his men into the barracks.


	2. Chapter 2

The men shuffled back into Barracks 2 and headed straight for the office—Hogan's office.

Except that when Hogan stepped inside, his quarters were unrecognizable. Somehow, in the brief time since they had got up this morning, Carter had moved in and really spread out. Hogan's tasteful travel posters and photographs were gone, replaced with cheesecake pictures of Betty Grable and a girl Hogan instantly recognized from Carter's letters as Mary Jane. Only, on closer inspection, Mary Jane wasn't fresh-faced anymore. Not with that mascara and eye-shadow and garish rouge. And definitely not with that cleavage.

Hogan did a double-take at Carter, who was leering at the pictures. This wasn't making sense at all; the Carter he knew had no libido whatsoever. Hogan sat on the bunk and rested his head in his hands. It ached quite a bit. He wasn't sure why.

"Harassing the enemy," Carter intoned as the men gathered around. "That's our job. What's your best idea for today? Kinch?"

Kinch grinned wickedly. "Maybe we could slip into the kitchen and mix cod liver oil into their stew. That'd take everyone out of commission for a while."

"Gross, man." A languid voice drifted like smoke from the doorway. It was LeBeau, leaning carelessly into the door frame as if he was holding it up. "Like, we're gonna be the ones who have to live with that?" he drawled with an odd rise in is intonation. "And, like, it's not cool?"

"That's exactly why we're doing it!" Carter said decisively. "Right, we need a volunteer." He looked around at the men assembled before him. They were looking over their shoulders, or studying their hands, or whistling distractedly. All but one, who stood there bright eyed, like an eager dope.

"Peter," Carter said with determination in his voice. "We need to incapacitate the Krauts. Do you think you can you find your way to the kitchen and do the honors with the cod liver oil?" There was doubt in his voice about whether the guy could find his way out of a paper bag; Peter certainly wasn't the nimble cat that Carter was. But he couldn't do everything around here, Carter reminded himself.

"Of course I can do it! Easy as cake," Newkirk chirped in his usual upbeat manner.

"Pie, Peter," Carter said irritably. "The expression is 'easy as pie.'"

"I'm quite sure you're mistaken," Newkirk replied cautiously. "At least, I've never heard it said that way."

"Wrong, wrong, wrong," Carter said.

"Well, I'm making up my own expressions," Newkirk said sulkily. "I'm an Englishman. I have certain rights."

He was silenced into submission by Carter's death stare, but not for long. Apparently the mention of cake had shaken loose a thought in Newkirk's empty head.

"My governess, Mrs. Twitchit, used to let Cook serve us this really lovely Victoria sponge cake on special occasions in the nursery… two buttery layers… cream and strawberry jam… a dusting of icing sugar on top…" He got a faraway look in his eye until LeBeau elbowed him in the ribs. "Sorry, sorry, a bit distracted. Food does that to me…"

"We know," LeBeau said with a roll of his eyes. "It's all you talk about. You need a manly hobby, Pierre. After we finish here, I'm going to teach you to gamble."

"Gambol? Oh, that sounds lovely. I do like a good frolic. You know, I had this pony once, at our country place…"

"No, Pierre, g-a-m-b-l-e," LeBeau said. "Or we could just play checkers. Anything to shut you up about food and wine. It's bad enough that I have to cook just because I'm French. You know what I'd be happy with? A baloney sandwich, on that amazing Wonder bread. With, like, mayonnaise and Kool-Aid? Oh, yeah."

"It's not just food and wine with Harrow boy. It's art too. Please, don't start him on art," Kinch complained.

"There's nothing unmanly about meals and culture," Newkirk protested. "And stop calling me Pierre, and Peter for that matter. How come I'm the only one ever called by his Christian name?" He gestured fearfully in Carter's direction and whispered, "No one would dare call him 'Andrew.' They just wouldn't."

"It's just our little way of marginalizing you," Kinch said simply. "Now shut up. And quit arguing with Carter. It's 'easy as pie,' for your information."

"Oh, no, that's where you're wrong, Kinch, old bean," Newkirk said, shaking his head. "It's actually _quite_ difficult to stop arguing with Carter, because, well you know, he's rather irritable."

Everyone stared until Newkirk finally realized where he had gone somewhat off track, logically speaking. Plus, he could feel Carter's angry eyes boring holes into his head and neck.

Hogan sat there, wondering what the heck the point was of this particular mission. Making the guards sick would inconvenience them. But what was it doing for the war effort? Why weren't they stealing code books or blowing up bridges? Didn't these guys have any imagination at all?

So he spoke up. "Listen, guys, causing mischief isn't enough. Surely there are bigger, better things we could be doing."

But they went on talking, as if no one heard a word. In fact, they all looked through him as if he simply wasn't there.


End file.
